Page 8 of Katya and the Young God

The middle-aged store clerk, with his Vietnam veteran hat and flannel shirt, raises an eyebrow at her, his eyes immediately falling to the pistol at her hip. “Iraq?” He asks, instead of saying hello or anything, his voice heavily skeptical.

She knows she no longer looks like a soldier, but that is intentional. “Afghanistan for two tours,” she says, smooth. Her suit is the nicest thing in the building.

His eyebrows quirk, but he nods. “What are you looking for?”

She lets her eyes sweep the room in a way that looks casual, but he doesn’t buy it, and her estimation of him goes up a notch. “Spyderco Civilian?” She asks, offhand, as if she’s not interested in his response. “Or a Benchmade?”

He climbs off his stool, lumbering with a limp over to the knife stand. “You looking to gut someone?” He asks, but it’s friendly. “It’s not good for utility.”

She gives him her best winning smile, the smile that gets people to take a step back at her viciousness. “I just moved in. I live alone—I just wanna be safe.”

He matches the smile, all teeth, pulling out the tray.

She spends several enjoyable minutes in silence, testing the weight of the various knives, and it’s glorious because he doesn’t try to up sell her, try to interest her in something flashy.

She lets him sell her on a handcuff escape kit, with a small diamond coated needle wire and a few lock shims, before tucking all her purchases into her jacket and leaving.

* * *

Her next stopis a seedy cell phone shop, where she pays for a simple flip phone with cash, a smidgen embarrassed by her own paranoia.

A quick trip to the grocery store later, and she rumbles the beast of a truck to the dirt driveway. The sky is just beginning to turn colors, streaking an impressive pink and orange through the dense trees, and the temperature drops like a stone.

Shivering, she hustles to get the groceries inside, vowing to get herself several jackets next time she goes into town.

2

She jerks awake, and the sun streams through the windows and there are goddamn fucking birds singing outside her window and her neck cricks in such an off position that she hasn’t felt in years and and and —-

And there’s someone shaking the door at the small cabin. Her pulse stills, and her focus dials down to a pinprick, until all she hears is the door rattling against the frame.

Slow, as quiet as she can, she stands, her back unhappy about the night spent on the couch, and picks up the knife from her desk. It clinks against the wood, a sound that echoes in the bright sunlight.

It must be close to 10 AM local time, with the light like that.

With a deep breath, she approaches the door. If the person wanted to get in, really wanted to, they could’ve gone through the window, it’s not nearly as secure as she wants, so they probably don’t mean her harm, but…

But she’s had plenty of threats come through the front door with a smile.

She cracks the door open, and, out on the stoop, dressed professionally, stands Feketer.

He lifts his head in greeting, and she quietly closes the knife and fits it into her pocket, and the entire world comes back into view.

Her hair is a mess, she’s still wearing the suit she flew in, and her eyes are crunchy.

“Good morning.” He squints at her. “Jet lag hitting ya?”

She straightens. “I was asleep.”

He nods, then gestures to the door. “I would’ve called, but I don’t want this on record.”

And that wakes up her brain a little more, so she opens the door wider and steps aside. “I’m going to make coffee,” she declares, instead of anything else. “Can Pixies drink it?”

“I could go for that,” he says, not answering the question, but she putters to the ancient coffee maker and beats it into submission, aware that the Pixie is studying her tiny new collection of weaponry.

Once the coffee machine produces some near boiling bitter coffee, she raises an eyebrow at him. “You were coming back from Europe—you’re probably just as jet lagged,” she says, handing him the cup.

He takes it but doesn’t drink it, instead holding it in his thin fingers to warm them. “I was only there for a day, not enough time to get adjusted.” There’s a long pause, one where she becomes more and more aware of how little she’s put together.

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